The Americano
by Superkawaiifreak
Summary: Roxas has never quite liked working closing shifts and Axel stumbles into the coffee shop with time to spare. Oneshot. M for language.


Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts.

AN: Inspired by the very divinity residing in daily life. This is also a by-product of the in-between portions of writing blocks and such. Stylistically, this is unlike my other stories, but I think it works. Look for barista-related jokes, quotable men who are a part of The Giants of the past, and your own desire to stumble upon an empty coffee shop and time to waste.

Important Notes: My conventions are all as I intend for them to be.I may not have included all of the necessary accent marks.

* * *

Apparently, a palette fucked over by too-strong Irish whiskey and the stinging burn of cigarettes on the tongue can confront the ultimate black Americano with victory and without the disgraceful Walk of Shame back to the kitchen to retrieve the half and half after three insipid sips of bitter espresso.

He wasn't the type of guy Roxas would usually take interest in, but he possessed a certain _je ne sais quoi_ of mechanic-like ruggedness that convinced Roxas he could love him. It was with only a few heated glanced, too, that Roxas decided this; every Wednesday, the mechanic doppelganger would tread into Roxas's family's bakery-slash-café around seventeen o'clock; the man didn't look around the place too much but Roxas knew that he had it all mapped out in his head. The first time he walked in the café, he kicked his shoes across the tile and spoke in a sort of flat tone, not too emotional but not too detached. Roxas first noticed his legs. Wrapped in starchy denim jeans, they were muscular and not too long, not lanky at all, and he stood firmly, erect, always wearing dumbed-down brown leather dress shoes. Usually a shirt of either black, navy blue, or white accompanied this denim; the sleeves were short and they were loose around his biceps, but the body of his shirt was more fitted to his abdomen, specifically clutching his lower stomach with all of its blue-white-or-black threads. Soft red hair tucked under a baseball hat, the long strands were not something that particularly enticed Roxas; the combination of that bright hair and olive-colored skin struck him as something brilliant, however. Those slicing jade eyes, those extraordinary things, were too often masked by thick black, wooden glasses frames with a terrible prescription meant for near-sightedness. He had a tendency to observe only closely, like a microscope with three or more secondary magnifiers.

The gentle whirring of espresso machines fluttered into Roxas's train of thought, distracting him from his French homework in front of him. Roxas's family (the Varads) let him have his own table to sit at, in the general lobby among other customers, during his work shifts when the place became slow or devoid of foot traffic. A casually-furnished place, the rectangular café had oak tables along the walls with four couches placed in the middle of the room, and a stream of golden-white twinkle lights adorned the ceiling tiles. Dotted here and punctuated there, light shimmied onto the lobby tiles, bouncing off the reflective surfaces of the coffee shop.

Sometimes, in the eve of the night, Roxas imagined that someone would stumble into the place piss drunk—maybe they would hold a gun up to his face and demand five free vanilla lattes, or maybe a young woman would rage at him for not making her cold iced chai tea latte with _soy,_ goddammit,and would point the shiny tip of a knife at his chest—sure, someone would come to his rescue, but the police were always late in his mind.

_Je ne regrette rien grace à vous, mais votre mere n'est pas bonne du tout._

Interesting statement. Roxas pressed his lips together, keeping in the _French Zone_ to continue reading.

_Pourquoi, Manon? Ugolin l'a demandé. Manon a dit, elle n'est pas benevole._

Zipping through the air, espresso grinds whirred out of the machine, the result of inattention. Roxas shot up from his chair and ran over to the machine, his papers fluttering to the floor.

"Shit," Roxas cursed lowly. He glanced to the lobby, seeing only three customers sipping absentmindedly on their—what were they?—a chai tea latte (he abhorred these; they weren't even reminiscent of tea), a regular hot green tea, and some frivolous Frappuccino-like drink with special _no sugar added_ ingredients (as if it made a difference?). _There better be no damn customers for the next ten minutes._

He poked around the espresso beans, attempting to wiggle the grinding switch back into place. How do these things happen? Grabbing a plastic spoon, he stood in front of the machine for a good few seconds, simply looking at the oily brown beans. The too-strong bitter smell slammed into his nostrils, and he desperately wondered how he had still not grown accustomed to the sour air of espresso. Whirring espresso grinds no longer whirring. A few stifled yawns and the turning of a crisp newspaper. The distant beep of a truck in the parking lot…

How did that French go again? _Je ne regrette rien grace à…_what_? _Damn. He had to finish reading that excerpt from Marcel Pagnol's _Jean de Florette _before the end of the night because he had a practice AP exam, the whole damn shebang, first thing in the morning at eight o'clock sharp_. _That Ugolin character, man—he was a crazy bitch. Who would sew a chiffon ribbon into their chest skin to express their love for another person? Fucking disgusting. Sociopathic. Dedication.

Constantly tied down by schoolwork, Roxas's otherwise social-lifeless life was comprised of homework, homework, and work. Not that he minded—the coffee shop provided him with a relaxing mental escape of the daily stresses of school, and the sweet, caramel smells of Two Cups (his family's coffee shop) reminded him of his siblings. His whole family was full of coffee addicts. Sora, Ven, his mom and dad—all addicted to coffee. Roxas wasn't as dependent on the coffee as much as Sora or Ven, but he did enjoy a good cup every now and then. But his schoolwork—that did isolate Roxas pretty severely. Cue the melancholy violin music: he had friends but faced such a disconnect with other people on the basis that he couldn't physically deal with real commitments to other people, so most of the time, he worked at school and worked at home. Workaholic—a good addiction, he presumed.

Lights flashed through the front glass doors as Roxas managed to lodge the espresso beans out of machine's chamber. He tossed the spoon in the garbage, irritated, and walked to the cash register to ring up the asshole who decided to come ten minutes before the shop closed.

And then he walked in. He pulled open the door a bit too roughly, breathed out the biting wintry air too loudly, and made his presence known in the store without quite singing his name to the customers. Obviously. Roxas flicked his eyes to the red-haired customer, definitely curious about the man's worn leather brown shoes. He walked up to the register.

"Hi, what can I get for you tonight?" Roxas asked mechanically, slipping into his warm-smile-and-cheerful-voice mode. It took all of his swimming willpower to not sit on the fact that had his words been stressed slightly differently, his name would be Princess and his only coworkers would be decadence and lust.

Looking up at Roxas knowingly, Axel smirked. "You're really quite pleasant."

"Uh," Roxas faltered, "thanks, I guess." He looked lamely at the register. "That's why I'm here…"

"I'm sure, I'm sure." He clicked his tongue, "how about one of those Americanos? I could go for some caffeine right now." He cracked his neck.

"Alright…" The light of the register screen lit up Roxas's face as he keyed in the order. The customer began looking at the bakery case, idly picking up the yogurt parfaits and pushing around the cold glass Perrier bottles. An unsettling story floated into Roxas's head: this idle loitering was preceding a huge robbery, because this mechanic-like customer had the incessant need for limitless (or about twenty) bottles of sparkling water and cinnamon-flavored coffee cakes. Maybe he would be the one Roxas had always imagined who would demand five free drinks or Roxas's death. A bit of an unsettling thought. An interesting thought…

Fuck. French homework.

"You alright?" Mechanic asked. He wasn't even a mechanic. At least, not to the extent of Roxas's knowledge.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, um… I just need to finish your order." Never mind those thoughts of a customer gone awry.

"Is that so? 'Cause it looked like you were thinking about something way more important."

"I just have some French excerpts I need to have read and analyzed by tomorrow… This one is from Jean de Florette, but the more difficult is called 'Contre le Colonisme.' I have a practice AP exam tomorrow and I, for whatever reason, haven't read any of my assigned lectures…" God, he didn't know how lame that sounded until he said it aloud.

"You take French, eh? What do you even learn in there besides French kissing those _garcons_ with bubble lips?"

Roxas's face reddened, startled by the sudden flirtation. "Uh…" he took the guy's money, peeling the receipt off the printer. "Like, verbs and… Complicated tenses…"

Mechanic took the receipt, following Roxas's path as he walked to the other side of the coffee bar to make his drink.

"Black."

"What?"

"I want the Americano black… You know, like no extra space at the top. Cream is for weaklings."

Duh. "Alright, well, do you want it to be at least half-caffeinated? It's just late at night and you'll probably be up for hours."

"Sure, sure, whatever you guys do to make your drinks better for me!" Mechanic shook his head, laughing to himself.

The chai tea-drinking customer peered over at Mechanic, curiously keeping his eyes in their direction.

"So," Roxas began, grabbing a large paper cup, "how is it that you can actually drink this stuff? I don't drink those lattes that everyone and their mom gets, but I at least need some sugar in an Americano. Way too strong."

He leaned back, "well, I drink a lot of whiskey, so I have a really fucked up palette. The Americano is nothing to me, kid." That grin returned.

How did Roxas respond to that? "Is that so?"

"It _is_," he replied, inspired by the challenge. "Listen—wait, so how old are you?"

Say seventeen and be truthful or say eighteen and prompt unsanitary thoughts? "I'm just seventeen," Roxas responded, filling the paper cup with hot water. He retrieved the group head of the espresso machine and filled it with espresso grinds. The beans casually whirred around in the coffee chamber.

Mechanic's toxic-green eyes widened looking as if he had already conjured some now-illegal thoughts. "Oh, shit, well then—nevermind…"

"Hey, wait just a sec—I turn eighteen this coming Tuesday!" That, ladies and gentlemen, was the pure and unadulterated truth. Hack.

His lips parted into a gleaming smile, a small twinkle in his eye, and he laughed. "Well, even if this conversation isn't even the truth, I have nothing to lose," he set his eyes straight on Roxas, tentatively cocking his head. "So, when you turn eighteen next week, you need to go to the bar," he motioned to the front doors, "and ask for a Wild Turkey 101."

Roxas arched his brow. He spilled hot water on his shaking hands.

Mechanic winked. "When you drink that shit, you'll understand why an Americano is nothing."

"… You know that I can't even drink, legally, until I'm twenty-one?"

"Well… Yeah. But who follows the drinking age laws?"

"Pretty much no one. But I don't want to drink even now, 'cause my friend tells me that it can impair neural development."

"Hah. You're smart, then?"

"The best and brightest."

Mechanic smiled. "That's what I like to hear."

Roxas pulled the fourth and final shot for the Americano, pouring it into the steaming cup. Black, he said. No room for cream and sugar. Such a stupid drink. That whiskey shot must be like… a thousand shots of espresso at once.

"Hey," Mechanic said after a few seconds of silence. "Can I ask you a question?"

He piqued Roxas's interest. "'Course." He placed the lid on the cup, walking around the coffee bar to hand Mechanic his drink.

"How much would it cost for me to invest in the establishment a Two Cups?" Mechanic stepped closer to get his drink.

"What?"

"Well, that's what your shop is called, right?"

"Right… But do you mean like… A Keurig-like machine from Two Cups? 'Cause those are over by the back shelf."

Smiling at Roxas's naivety, Mechanic shook his head. "No. I mean a private franchise. I want my own. I come here often enough that I can tell this drink apart from other stores' drinks—like fuck Starbucks—so I just want to have my own that I can manage and get free drinks whenever I want."

"Who _are_ you?" Roxas asked incredulously, laughing. "Well, I mean, I know who you are, 'cause you've come in here before, but like in life—like I guess just your _name_, who are 'you'?"

Mechanic smiled, a golden glimmer sweeping across his green oceanic eyes, the seaweed strands of his eyelashes tying Roxas to the spot. "I'm Axel Leighty."

"Well, Axel, thank you for giving my family store of Two Cups constant business every Wednesday night right before we close, as if twenty-two o'clock isn't late enough for you." Roxas grinned.

Mechanic look surprised at Roxas's time measurement, a confused glow on his face.

"So… I take it you study some European language, then?"

Oh. So this guy isn't an idiot. "I do. I'm in AP French Language at my school." Roxas paused, "did you take AP course loads in high school?"

"I'm hurt that you'd have to ask," Axel the Mechanic replied, dramatically using his free hand to clutch his chest. "High school was a long time ago for me—but when I was in it, I was all about economics and math. You know. Scarcity of resources and integration."

Mechanic began again, "but that was high school."

Axel's spiked maroon hair added vividness to Roxas's otherwise predominantly white-and-brown colored café, and his unceremoniously long hair contrasted Roxas's own short blond cut. Axel's robust frame and his whiskey-scented breath opposed Roxas's modest muscle tone and lemonade-coated mouth. Roxas still had those AP excerpts to read.

"So, I feel like I need to tell you that this is the last time I'll ever come into your family's store again," mentioned Axel, whose long fingers were still wrapped around the cup of hot espresso. He could only focus on that he kept beginning his sentences with 'so.'"

"Uh—just like that?" Roxas asked. He didn't know the customer too well, but there was still a small part in him that would miss the Wednesday Night Regular.

"It's not like I want to—" And Axel cut himself off, wondering why he was getting so emotional about leaving some teenager in his favorite coffee shop.

Sighing, Axel walked over to Roxas's private table, still littered with French homework. "Here, come sit down." Axel picked up the papers from the tile, shuffling them together. "What the hell is this?"

"My French homework! I'm really supposed to, uh, be doing it…"

"Seriously? You choose French homework over sitting down to talk to a ridiculously attractive man on a late night in a _coffee shop_? Coffee is the drink people drink before—"

"Stop. I'm coming over." Roxas eyed the entrance of the shop wearily before conceding to the table. He nervously scratched at his head, not knowing what to say to Axel, the customer who he knew out of circumstance and habit rather than by actual conversation.

Axel reached across the table and held out his hand. "You know my name's Axel. What's yours?"

Still a bit paranoid that Axel might whip out a knife, Roxas paused a second too long and Axel resorted to rolling his eyes and stiffening his hand in the air.

Roxas put his hand in Axel's. "I'm Roxas."

"An interesting name. How do you pronounce it, again?"

"Roxas is Roxas…"

"What's that? Like… Rocks-_ass_, emphasis on the _ass_ part?"

Reddening, Rockass rolled his eyes. He shook his head, inwardly smiling.

"How about this, Roxas—let's get your palette working. I drink half of this Americano, and you drink the other half." Roxas eyed him. "It'll be good for me! I'll get half the caffeine, and you'll get to, uh, see if you can actually make good coffee."

When Roxas thought back to that night, Axel's Americano was the richest, most strangely bold drink he had ever tasted. The lemonade taste on his tongue made the espresso a little bit sweeter, but it still needed some creamer—desperately. When at first Roxas didn't know how to approach Axel, the streaming warmth of the coffee and Axel's amiability let him feel at ease, and Roxas eventually loosened up. He smiled.

They talked about coffee, of course. Axel went on to say that he had just graduated from some East Coast school with a major in business economics and a minor in finance investment, and that his dad had also followed in the footsteps of a businessman. Roxas asked if Axel had cared to study any foreign languages so he could do any international business, but Axel laughed it off and said something about Rockefeller and being a real American and that French was for pussies. This would later cause Roxas to burst out laughing during his AP test the following morning when he would read the 'Contre le Colonisme' excerpt, which would shock most of his classmates because laughing during an AP test was so not-the-norm. The redhead was apparently still a bit bitter that his brother, Reno, graduated with top university honors and that he hadn't, all because of that one foreign language class he failed. He liked the foreign language culture rather than the actual content. Axel also turned out to not be a drunk, just a fresh college graduate who liked whiskey a bit too much.

"I'm telling you, Roxas!" Axel shouted enthusiastically, "whiskey is good. It burns like hell the first few times, but once you get over the numbness and burning and tears, you'll taste it, and Roxas—it is awesome."

They decided that once Roxas turned eighteen, he really ought to go to the bar and ask for that shot of Wild Turkey 101. Axel, of course, didn't care that the legal age was twenty-one. At this point, Axel pulled a lemon packet out of his pocket and squeezed it into his Americano, earning a look of pure disgust from Roxas.

"The fuck?"

"It's good. I swear." He took a quick gulp, eyes blazing.

Roxas looked around the store, noticing that the customers had all left, and that the lights' self-timer had dimmed the brights of the store significantly. He looked at the clock, noticing it was now one in the morning. Roxas winced, knowing that his mom would probably be angry with him for closing three hours past close time.

"What—is everything okay?" Axel asked, his voice changing.

Roxas covered his frown, standing up. "Yeah—but, it's thirteen o'clock."

"Thirteen o'clock…?" Axel was puzzled, then a wave of understanding him. "Oh, hell no, you aren't gonna go all French on me. You mean it's one o'clock. We're in America. It's one, Roxas."

"You've said it three times and still haven't registered that it is _one o'clock in the morning?"_

Silence ensued.

"Well…" Axel stood too, sloshing his drink around to mix the espresso and lemon juice. "It's late."

"I should close."

"Don't say that."

"What?"

Axel quoted with his fingers, "'Should.' I hate it when people say they 'should' do something. To me, I'm just wondering why whoever is saying 'should' isn't just thinking for their own."

Challenged, Roxas shot Axel a look. "Are you trying to be funny? 'Cause it's not."

College Graduate sighed. "No—shit, I forget that as an AP student, you have that God Complex about you still." He sat back down and took a drink of his Americano. "Just—just do what you think you need to do. When you say 'should,' it seems like you're following somebody else's rules—and I could be wrong, but you don't seem to be one to take orders from somebody else. Unless it's God or whoever but I'm not even talking about that."

"So, what are you saying…?"

"I'm _saying _that conditionals are stifling to your mind, especially with the type of person you're going to become."

"Well, I don't really know how—"

"Speaking of!—what are you? Who are you? You're Roxas who works at this family coffee shop. You know all about me. I went to a hotshot university 'cause my dad rolls like JP Morgan. I like economics. I like Americanos and boys with blond hair and tanned skin. So," Roxas looked at the clock, but Axel moved in front of him. "Forget the clock. You're already fucked. Tell me about you."

Roxas smiled at that-the situation was so far gone that it didn't really matter how late it was anymore.

"Well… I'm a senior at the Club Day School down the street. I turn eighteen next week." He didn't know what to say.

"Alright, alright, that's good. Doing anything for your birthday?"

"Probably not. I don't really want to, anyway—it's just an added expense on me, and my friends are all idiots. I'd honestly just rather take the train to the beach for the day, eat something sweet, play Frisbee in the ocean…" A nostalgic flash sparkled in his eye.

Axel's eyes softened. "You seem like the romantic type, Roxas."

"Maybe I am."

Axel picked up his cup again, taking a long drink. He breathed out and handed the cup to Roxas. Roxas saw that it was fourteen o'clock on the dot when he brought the still-steaming lemony-espresso drink to his lips. The sour acidity made his jaw flex, and his eyes watered out from the bright lemon flavor.

"You like it?" asked Axel eagerly.

"No. God no."

"Come on! Not even a little? I think it tastes sort of sweet." He chuckled, fidgeting with his baseball cap.

What Roxas wanted to say was that only the faded taste of lemonade is what made the Americano sweet and that maybe just maybe Axel's full and robust personality may have relieved the bitter taste of the American from his tongue.

Roxas absentmindedly took the lid off, looking to see how much was left. "There's only like one drink left."

"Is there?" Axel walked closer to Roxas, peering down in the cup. "Hum." Resolute.

Axel stood there for a few seconds, his hand grazing his chin. "Tell you what, Roxas," he took the cup from the blond's hands. "You can have the last sip."

Roxas had read enough books to know that this must be symbolic of something. He had read too much Shakespeare to be sane. Challengingly, Roxas started, "Well, why? It's your drink, you bought it—you should have it."

"There you go with those 'shoulds' again. I told you—'shoulds' take out the spice of life, it turns the world into an either completely wrong or completely right place, and with so many fucked up things like pain, hate and love and joy, we need a place and time to think, for once, with no regard for rules."

"Jesus, now I think you might be the insane one…"

"Nah, I'm just well-read."

Axel tilted the cup to Roxas. "So, drink it. 'Cause you probably won't remember me when I leave for the west coast, but that whiskey shot I told you about and this last drink of a lemon-filled Americano will make you tingle in all the right places, if you catch my drift." He laughed at his own crassness.

"Whatever," Roxas sloshed the liquid then took a gulp, wincing at the Americano's biting bitterness. He threw the cup on his French homework, trying to unthicken his sour spit and licking his lips furiously, assuming Axel would leave.

"Now, let me taste that edge." Axel's breath misted over Roxas's cheek and his dry soft lips met Roxas's own lips. Taken aback, Roxas froze for a moment. Axel drew back slightly and said to relax, then brought his lips back to Roxas's; his hand first touched Roxas's jaw, his shoulder, then lightly traced his neck. Axel's glasses were pushed up. They stayed like that for a few moments, then Roxas leaned back into Axel, feeling his warmth emanate throughout his body. Axel licked Roxas's lips, taking off that thick concentration of lemon, and drew back, leaving Roxas's mouth wonderfully empty and sweet.

"… So I take it you're not a mechanic?" lulled Roxas.

"Hah—no, I'm not. Happy early birthday, Roxas. You're a good kid." Axel picked up his keys from the table and softly walked out of the back exit of the shop, taking one fleeting glance back at Roxas from over his shoulder.

Roxas nodded numbly, not knowing how Charles Dickens would write his character when saying his final goodbye to a fantastical stranger.

Roxas's mom wasn't too angry at him the following morning at six o'clock when he woke up, as it becomes, because the self-timers had closed most of the shop with technology alone. She only lectured him for the lack of safety that he was placed in by not closing until 2:30 A. M.

"You weren't doing anything… _bad_, were you?" She implored him eagerly, her eyes big.

He went up and wrapped his arms around her, smiling. "Of course not, mom."

He went to take his French AP test, laughing at and acing it, and went through his day in numbness.

Roxas dreamt of Axel's twinkling eyes over the deep turquoise sea, those bright lone stars shining hotly over the seamless borders of land and ocean, with freshly squeezed lemons floating through the sweet summer nights before a perpetual sunrise.


End file.
